by Tess Diamond
“There’s only so much time we can buy,” she said. “Because if we send in that doctor and he tells us that Kayla’s out of time, the plan has to change.”
All bets would be off. And Maggie would have to decide.
The problem was, she wasn’t sure what the solution was.
Chapter 49
As Maggie and Jake made their way back to the mobile unit, she saw two more news vans through the trees. The press had been corralled, but it wasn’t stopping them from lining up behind the barriers. They had a good view of the cabin from their spot, but were far enough away from the trucks and cordons that they weren’t in the line of fire, in case Mancuso came out shooting. There was a small chance the journalists could get hit with falling debris if Mancuso set off the bomb, depending on where in the cabin Paul was when it was activated. It made her nervous that the blast radius of the bomb was an unknown. They could estimate the best they could and keep everyone as far away as possible. But without being aware of Paul’s positioning or Mancuso’s bomb-building skills, there were a lot of unknowns. Maggie looked up to see bright flashes of light—journalists talking into cameras, reporting live. Uneasiness settled in her chest, wrapping around her heart.
“We’re still in restricted airspace,” Jake reassured her as he caught her scowling at the vans.
“I know,” Maggie said. “I just wish they’d back off. They’re like vultures.”
“Part of the job,” Jake said. “Crappy part, though.”
“Understatement,” Maggie said as an SUV pulled through the cordons and up to them. Grace stepped out. She made a face when her heels sank into the dirt, but her expression disappeared when she caught sight of Maggie. She hurried over.
Maggie couldn’t help but glance at Jake out of the corner of her eye, waiting for Grace’s beauty to hit him and the all too familiar worshipful look men always got when she was around. But he barely looked at her other than to give a short nod of acknowledgment.
“Maggie, I need to talk to you,” Grace said.
“I’ll be right back,” Maggie told Jake.
“Take your time, ladies,” he said. “I’ll go make sure Agent Grant doesn’t stage a coup.”
“Appreciate it.” She shot him a quick, reassuring smile, and he smiled back.
“You got this,” he told her before walking back to the mobile unit. Her cheeks heated, and when she looked at Grace, she saw her friend’s perfectly shaped eyebrows rise in an unspoken question. Maggie’s blush deepened. Why, oh why did her friend have to be an expert in human behavior, of all things?
“Oh, my God,” Grace said with a wicked grin. “We’ll talk about whatever that was later. Over wine, and after this is all over and everyone’s safe.” She straightened, tugging at the hem of her gray peplum top. “But right now, we’ve got to talk. I’ve been going through everything, putting together a profile—and I think we have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?” Maggie asked, ushering her into one of the empty SWAT trucks. She sat down on one of the seats, and Grace settled in one across from her, legs neatly crossed, looking troubled. She pulled out a folder from her leather briefcase, handing it to Maggie.
“The profile I put together speaks of a self-sacrificing personality,” Grace explained. “His mission is paramount. The lack of any personal touches in his apartment kept getting to me, though. For a guy who is so focused on his brother, you would think he’d keep something around to remind him of his mission. But there was nothing; nothing at all. Then when I got a transcript of your call when he listed his demands . . .” Grace leaned over, her delicate lips, painted a bright coral, twisting in concern. “He knows he’s not getting out of here, Maggie,” she said. “He knows there’s never going to be a ride to the airport or five million dollars. He was just spouting off whatever he could think of. He’s buying time. And not to form a new plan. He’s trying to get up the nerve.”
“To do what?” Maggie asked.
“To die. From the beginning, he’s never expected to make it through this,” Grace said, the worry in her eyes clear now. “He doesn’t care about surviving. All he cares about is exposing the men who killed his brother. This is a suicide mission.”
Her stomach sank, her hands twisting in her lap. Maggie wasn’t surprised that Grace had reached this conclusion. It was something that she had suspected and dreaded. But she had wanted Grace to tell her she was wrong.
In a way, as someone who had lost a sibling, she almost understood Mancuso. Hadn’t she spent her life trying to make up for Erica’s loss? Wasn’t Mancuso essentially doing the same thing for his brother—just in a more harmful way?
“I know you’re right,” she said quietly.
“Then what are you going to do?” Grace asked. “What’s the plan? Because the scenario changes when the unsub’s planning suicide by cop. You know that. Do you really think you can pull him back from the edge? You’re fantastic, Mags, but I’m not sure anyone’s that good. This guy’s dedicated. He’s got tunnel vision.”
Maggie didn’t know what to say. All of her training and her instincts still told her that the best way to get Kayla and Paul out of there alive was to keep Mancuso talking, building trust with him until an opportunity appeared. She knew he was trying to buy time—but so was she. Mancuso wasn’t the kind of person who took pleasure in killing. He had to be pushed into it. If she could just keep from pushing him . . .
There was a knock on the door of the SWAT truck, and Grace got up and opened it.
“Ms. Kincaid?” asked a deep voice.
“She’s inside,” Grace said.
“I’m coming,” Maggie called. She got to her feet.
“Think about what I said.” Grace squeezed her arm, stepping back to allow her to get out.
“I will,” Maggie said, stepping down and onto the ground, blinking in the bright lights at the figure in front of her.
A tall, lean, dark-haired man stood in the beam of the floodlights, his shadow stretching out menacingly on the ground. He seemed slightly out of place in a t-shirt and jeans, considering the park was swarming with people in tactical gear.
“I’m Maggie Kincaid,” Maggie said, holding her hand out. “You are . . . ?”
“Mr. Black,” he said with a neutral smile, not taking her hand. She felt like an idiot for extending it, but she quickly realized that was the point.
This was someone who preferred his adversaries off-kilter from the start.
Maggie looked him up and down. She knew he couldn’t have gotten past the barriers without a badge. He wasn’t FBI, she was sure of that. Homeland Security, maybe? Or had the senator hired another expert to mess with her?
“And what agency do you work for?” Maggie asked.
“That doesn’t matter,” he said in a level, detached voice.
Maggie frowned. “Yes, it does,” she said. “I don’t allow people with unknown affiliations on my active crime scenes.”
“There are national security issues at stake here, Ms. Kincaid,” Mr. Black said. “My job is to protect and eliminate threats. I’m here to observe and watch out for the larger interest.”
“Are you in business with SouthPoint Oil?” Maggie asked, her instincts working overtime. This guy was suspicious as hell. What kind of badge did he flash to get through the cordons? It had to be something high up; SWAT wasn’t stupid. They weren’t going to just let anyone in.
“As I said, it doesn’t matter,” he replied.
Irritation pricked inside her like a swarm of hornets. She did not like this man. Every part of her was screaming not to trust him. “Actually, it does matter,” Maggie said. “If your job is to protect a bunch of high-ranking billionaire criminals, our goals aren’t the same. So if that’s your aim when you talk about ‘national security issues . . .’” She used air quotes and was rewarded with his calm mask faltering just slightly. “. . . you might want to step aside. The only things that matter are the hostages. I’m not interested in cover-ups or protecting corrupt
men.”
“There’s no need to get emotional, Ms. Kincaid,” Mr. Black said, the bland smile still pasted on his lips.
Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not being emotional, Mr. Black,” she spat viciously. “I’m doing my job.”
“I know that the hostages are the priority. I also know you have a personal connection to Paul Harrison in particular,” he continued, and Maggie kept her face impassive as he studied it, searching for a reaction. She wasn’t going to give him one. “I’m merely here to help.”
His smile, that maddeningly calm, superior smile, widened as he went on. “In fact, there are quite a few people in some very high places who wanted you off the case. I’m sure you understand, after the unfortunate way your last case turned out. They didn’t have any faith in your abilities. They said you were washed up. But I stuck up for you. Defended you. Told them to give you a chance. I think you have potential, Ms. Kincaid.”
Maggie didn’t need Grace’s help to know she shouldn’t trust this guy.
Mancuso had been telling the truth. His brother’s murder was just the tip of the iceberg. There were some very powerful people involved here. The kind who thought murder was a convenient solution to their problems. What if they decided it was more convenient to let Mancuso kill the hostages if it meant killing himself too?
She had more than Mancuso to worry about.
“I don’t need my ego stroked, Mr. Black,” she said. “And I don’t need your kind of assistance, whoever you work for.”
“I’m not an enemy, Ms. Kincaid,” the man said. “I’m here to help. Think of me as your friend.”
Maggie raised an eyebrow. “I trust my friends,” she said. “And I already know I shouldn’t trust you.”
She turned on her heel and stalked off, leaving him behind, hoping it wasn’t a mistake.
Hoping he wouldn’t be as trigger-happy as she feared.
Chapter 50
Sweat dripped down Paul’s upper lip, and his muscles tensed at the tickling sensation. He was aware of every part of his body, every movement, every breath as he desperately tried not to move. The weight of the bomb strapped to his chest pressed against him like a ton of bricks, and the zip tie was punishingly tight around his wrists.
The room was dark, but his eyes had adjusted. Cracks of light from the copters flying above flitted through the windows, casting shadows across the room. He could hear Kayla moaning softly in the corner on the couch. Mancuso had dumped her there earlier. Paul had managed to get a good look at her then. She’d been pale as a ghost and drenched in sweat, her blond hair a tangle around her face.
She didn’t have much time.
“You okay, Kayla?” he asked into the dark.
“Hurts,” she whispered in a cracked voice.
“Just hang on,” he told her.
“My mom,” she said. “Have you . . . is she all right?”
“Yeah,” Paul assured her. “She’s fine, sweetie. She’s gonna be really glad when she sees you. Just focus on that, okay?”
More sweat trickled down his face. He wanted nothing more than to duck his head, try to wipe off some of the sweat with his sleeve, but he knew better than to move too much. He had buddies on the bomb squad, and he knew there were a million mistakes an amateur like Mancuso could have made in rigging this thing. The thought made him stiffen further in his chair.
Goddammit, don’t move, Paul!
“It’s gonna be okay, Kayla,” he said. He hated giving false hope to the kid, but it was better than telling her the truth of how bad this was. She’d suffered enough. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, trying not to turn his head too much. He frowned at her stillness. Had she passed out?
“Keep talking to me,” he directed softly, moving his head a fraction to get a better look at the dark lump on the couch. She was curled up tight in a fetal position. Every few seconds, she’d jerk, as if her muscles were in spasm.
He needed to keep her awake. He didn’t know much about diabetes, but he knew if she fell unconscious, she might not wake back up. “You ride horses, right?”
“Yeah . . .” Kayla’s voice floated, shaky, across the room. “I have a horse. Star.”
“That’s a great name,” Paul said. “I rode when I was a kid. I had this gorgeous palomino. He was stubborn as hell. Knew how to unlock the stall door. You ride Western or English?”
“Both,” Kayla said. “My mom wanted me to focus on English, but Dad said it wasn’t American enough.”
Paul let out a short laugh, the irony not lost on him. The senator was concerned about his daughter’s patriotism when it came to saddles, but not his own when it came to screwing over his own government.
“I thought it was silly too,” Kayla said.
“What about school?” Paul asked. “Tell me about school. About your favorite class. Who’s your best teacher?”
As the girl haltingly began to talk about her history class, Paul tried to relieve the pressure on his shoulders by stretching his head forward a little, trying not to shift too much.
He couldn’t believe he was here. He hoped to God the other agents Mancuso attacked were okay. Had Mancuso killed them and stashed their bodies somewhere? They were gone by the time he came to, bound tight with the bomb already strapped to his chest.
He prayed they were safe. He didn’t get along with Mike Sutton and likely never would, but the guy had twin daughters. They didn’t deserve to be orphaned.
The cabin was small, he reasoned with himself as he prompted Kayla to tell him about lacrosse. There wasn’t any blood that he could see. Mancuso probably dumped the agents he didn’t want outside. After all, he only had one bomb vest, so he only needed one hostage.
If he got out of this alive, the guys were never going to let him hear the end of it. Letting a unsub get the drop on him was bad enough. Getting rigged with explosives was another. He’d be trying to live this down until his retirement.
If he got to retirement.
He tried to push down the fear, but it was real, and it was there. He’d be stupid not to be scared.
But he had a chance. He had a great chance.
He had Maggie. Maggie and that square-jawed security guy she was apparently sleeping with.
Not my business anymore, he told himself, but the hurt was there, dull and muted beneath his hammering heart.
The door opened, and the shuffling of Mancuso’s boots filled the room. Kayla’s weak voice silenced immediately, and she whimpered, shifting on the couch, trying to curl up in a tighter ball. Paul’s stomach clenched in sympathy. The poor kid. She didn’t deserve any of this.
Paul squinted in the darkness as Mancuso walked forward. His body tensed—don’t move too much, dammit—as Mancuso brushed past him, sitting down on the chair across from him.
Paul looked out of the corner of his eye at Kayla, now that he could see her better, he could see how hard she was trembling. It’s okay, Paul mouthed at her, before turning his attention back on Mancuso.
Mancuso straddled the chair, setting a battered LED lantern on the ground. A soft glow filled the room, lighting his face. He leaned forward. “Time to start talking, Harrison,” Mancuso said. “Let’s discuss your ex.”
Paul swallowed, his throat unbearably dry. “Which one?”
Mancuso rolled his eyes. “Let’s stop playing games, okay? If you’re honest, things will go faster. And maybe you’ll get out of this alive. Maggie Kincaid. I know you two were gonna get hitched.”
“How do you know that?” Paul asked. It wasn’t common knowledge. Sure, family and close friends had known, but Maggie had broken it off before they’d even started looking at venues. He’d spent a week at the bottom of a tequila bottle until a series of bank robberies had called him back into work. It had forced him to pull it together and stop mourning the loss of the life he’d pictured with her.
“It’s on the Internet,” Mancuso said.
“No, it’s not,” Paul said. “We’re FBI. We don’t broadcast stuff
online.”
“It doesn’t matter how I know,” Mancuso snapped, his face twisted in frustration. “I know. So now you’re going to tell me about her, or I’ll kill you.”
Kayla whimpered behind them.
“It’s okay, Kayla,” Paul assured her. “Close your eyes, honey. Block it out. Think about Star.”
“Stop talking to her!” Mancuso demanded, grabbing Paul’s chin and forcing his gaze to his.
Paul gritted his teeth as Mancuso’s fingers dug into his jaw. It was hard to resist the automatic urge to jerk away. Don’t fucking move! Who knows how unstable this bomb is?
“What do you want to know?” he asked, trying to avoid revealing anything.
Mancuso released him, settling back in his chair. “She good at her job?”
“She’s the best,” Paul said. “She came out of Quantico with more know-how and skill than anyone the Bureau had seen in years.”
“She wants to send in a doctor,” Mancuso said, suspicion creeping into his voice. “If I let her do that, is she gonna send in some burly guy with a gun hidden in his lab coat?”
“No,” Paul said firmly. A doctor! Thank God. Kayla needed one. He was worried as hell about her. She clearly needed insulin or sugar or something. Mancuso was playing fast and loose with her life, and nothing pissed Paul off more. He hated that he was frozen, stuck in one spot, unable to help, unable to attack. If he didn’t have this shit strapped to his chest, he would’ve taken Mancuso down by now. But he couldn’t risk it. Not with Kayla in the room. He had to wait for Maggie to execute her plan and save him. God, he hated being reduced to a victim who needed saving. But at least it was Maggie who was doing the saving. He wouldn’t want anyone else.
“Maggie’s not stupid,” Paul said. “And more importantly, she knows you’re not.”
Mancuso straightened a little at the blunt compliment.
“Maggie knows you’d see through it if she tried to double-cross you,” Paul continued. He figured this guy needed a little ego-stroking—his nerves were clearly getting to him. He’d rather have a confident unsub than a nervous one. Confident unsubs were bold, but they made mistakes. Nervous ones just panicked, succumbing to their fight-or-flight instinct. And if Mancuso tried to fight or tried to run, it wasn’t going to be pretty.